


Forever. (Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité)

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe- French Revolution, Angst, Gratuitous use of Parantheses, Gratuitous use of italics, M/M, Not A Noble! Treville, Revolutionary!Treville, The French Revolution AU that no one asked for ever, WIP, not a happy fic, the French Revolution, vague mentions of underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Treville didn't guess how Richelieu was going to die. He didn't have to. Even in his nightmares, it was always the same.<br/>Richelieu would march to his death with his head held high, one hand clutching his crucifix, the other outstretched toward the sky, as if he would send himself to heaven from proximity alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).



Paris was burning from shot and ash. In the streets and in the Seine, all that was left was blurs of red. The streets streamed red and stained everything in sight, turning a stable boy-turned-soldier into the general of the republic’s troops.

Nothing was clean, but a tricolor felt better than no color, and freedom burned everything to ash and blood in the end. Or, at least it should have; it had burned everything else away, chopping heads off of statues that had once adorned Notre Dame. Killing Queens and Kings and  so many living things. Blood was the republic’s baptismal water.

Yet some traitorous corner of his heart bled in a different way. One that made him weak and hopeful and so very afraid. Because it pounded in syncopated rhythm words that he shouldn’t have ever thought, words that he wished were drowned out by the beat of war drums, the pound of boots. The pound of the boots of the men he commanded, of his men whom he owed more loyalty than he gave; his men who idolized him, yet he almost feared,  should they go after what mattered most. And they would go after what mattered most. Because in the traitorous corner of his traitorous heart---

_I don’t want him to die_

\---Was a traitorous, stupid, childish love that should have died out ages ago.

(Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville was a fancy name for a boy who had nothing but it. Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville was a boy who was loyal and loving, and loved a boy more than anything in the world. But then the boy’s parents found out, and Jean was thrown out on the streets. So Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville joined the army, and died the day he did, in the dust of a career that would never rise beyond the rank of Lieutenant.

Treville rose from his smoldering ashes, with a fury and rage Jean the boy had never known. Jean had been a bleeding heart; Treville was heartless.

And underneath him, Paris burned.)

He used to be so loyal, said his prayers, spoke well of the gentility, knew his place in the world. Then time passed, and time passed, and still, more did. And the world he knew seemed to be like gunpowder near a candle---one false movement and everything would be blown to bits. Boys he knew were going to meetings that shouldn’t have even existed. Boys he knew were speaking of treason, and then---

“Come with us, Treville.” Lafleche said one night, when the moon was high and all of Jean’s letters back remained unanswered. “You owe them nothing, Treville.”

 _They gave me him,_ he might have said, had the world been a perfect one where something like that wouldn’t get him arrested. Had he not been forbidden to see him, thrown out from his life disgraced. Had he still had him, he might have said that. But the wax on his last letter to him remained unbroken on the desk, with only one single reply, and not from the intended recipient. Just a note from Maria, the housekeeper,a single line which read: _They aren’t letting him see your letters, Jean,_ and that was all he needed to know.

So he went with Lafleche, because country boys stuck together even when pretentious bastards screwed them over, and he was tempted into a daydream where he might mean something beyond his relation to others. (Beyond being _his_ possible downfall.)

And the King and Queen could fuck themselves if they thought they mattered to him.

So he locked his heart away in a box and fought for people who fought for bread. And he never shed a single tear when the cut off the noble bastards' heads. Yet now he worried, and now he fretted, because his men had died on barricades but---

Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville loved a boy, once. He loved a boy painfully, and he loved a boy dearly but he never thought that it could be. Because his boy was genius and gorgeous and powerful and most of all, far too grand for Jean. But his boy taught him to read when Jean should have been teaching him to ride, and he didn’t smile often, but when he did it was better than anything he had ever known. And Treville would’ve been content to work in the stables for the rest of his life, if only he had him by his side.

(When he kissed him, it had been in the middle of summer, behind the stables in the black of the night. He had tasted like expensive wine and Jean’s breath had caught in his throat, and he wished---oh, how he wished---that this could be forever.

“It can be,” he had said, and Jean didn’t believe him, but he wished he could.

“I’m yours forever, you know that,” Jean said instead, because even when it ended, that was still the way it would be. “Never anyone else.”)

But they couldn’t stay young forever, and Armand-Jean du Plessis de Richelieu had a shorter childhood than most. But he was handsome, and an idiot, and Jean loved him more than anything. Even when it had to end.

(“Forever,” Armand had said, the familiar repetition of the words they always said to each other.

“I don’t care what they think.”

“I know you don’t.” Their hands were entwined together, but he hadn’t realized how Armand’s were trembling before. “But you don’t know them, Jean. If you don’t go now---”

They would kill him. Anything to keep Armand’s reputation clear and unsullied. Anything to keep Armand safe. “You could run away with me,” he said, and instantly regretted it. He knew the answer to that. It was best not to ask.

Armand tensed. “Jean…”

“I know,” He sighed, because Armand’s ambitions were going to get in the way eventually, because Armand had visions of a future that Jean could never have. “I won’t ask you that, Armand.”

And so Treville left the Richelieu’s household quietly, and Armand went off to court.

(The young could never stay young forever.)

Jean enlisted, because that was the only place where strong young men could find work that actually payed. And he met LaFleche, and the boys, and everything tumbled down, down, down…)

He still loved him, even when he saw him again. He still loved him, even though Armand was now the Cardinal de Richelieu, and Treville was too deep in plans of revolution to get his heart caught in something as damning as love again. But Armand was resplendent and radiated the sort of power that he always had, except now it was real. And really, Jean knew better than to think that Armand didn’t have a magnetic pull on him.

He knew this game well, the game of looks out of the corners of their eyes, of glances exchanged across crowded rooms. He knew the quick, painful hope of _could it be? Yes, it must be,_ knew the way to make glances that could be construed as nothing, but never were nothing.

They met, finally, in an unpopulated corner of the gardens in Versailles, next to a waterless fountain and roses that had yet to bloom. Armand had tensed when he saw him, then slowly unclenched with a sigh. He didn’t look at him. “Jean.”

“Armand,” he said, because he couldn’t scream or beg or cry, _why did it take you so long,_ and _also get out of here and never come back._ But he didn’t say anything at all.

“I never wanted--- I never wished for it to be like this, you know.”

 _I never wanted for it to end like that,_ was what he meant. Well, that was well enough to say. They never wanted it to end at all. they filled their thrice-damned heads with stupid daydreams of a life where they could be happy, where they could be together.

They had been so naive. “That doesn’t change anything, Armand.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I know.” And there was something about him, some goddamned thing about him that seemed so---so _sad_ about that.

And part of Jean wanted to exploit that. Part of him wanted to rub it in his face--- _I don’t need you, I’ve never needed you_ \--- part of him wanted to say, _I felt like this for years, you bastard._ But another part---a bigger part, a smaller part, a certainly powerful part; the part that still loved him even though he shouldn’t---wanted to kiss him, tell him _there only ever was you, you know._

It happened in a daze, all too slow and all too fast: one moment he was reaching out to him, because he couldn’t deny himself that. The next, their lips were pressed against each other, and his hands were curled around Armand’s neck and tangled in his hair, and it was just like when they were young and stupid. He could almost smell the hay that had never gone away back them, could almost hear Armand trying so hard to be quiet as he held back breathy moans with quick inhalations of breath, and it was perfect---

and then it was over.

“We can’t,” Armand said, like it physically pained him to do so.

Treville pulled away, his body loose and sighing silently. “I know. I just---”

“I know.” Armand said, and his voice got low and quiet. “There is no one else.”

“Never will be,” He said, and damn it if it wasn’t as easy as breathing. But that was Armand. That would always be Armand. He’d send himself to hell if it meant he could have Armand. “Forever.”

And to hell with it all if he didn’t just damn himself there and then. He’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

He had been put on guard duty in Versailles. Everyone knew that. But he had guard duty in Versailles, and he could hear the phantom cries of the people of the streets while he was surrounded by gold and marble and lace. The Fuse that was Paris was drawing to its end, and he was a guard in _Versailles_.

“We need you to let them in, Treville,” Lafleche said, in the dim candlelight and hushed whispers of their meetings. “And then we’ll storm Versailles.”  
Storm Versailles. Kill---or capture---the king and queen and whatever courtiers they could find. Rebel. Set an Example. Kill the people Treville was sworn to protect.

(Yet none of that really mattered, in the end. He swore to protect the king and queen but he never really meant it, and none of that compared to what really bothered him---To storm Versailles meant betraying Armand. His first love who was likely his last, who had ambitions, who still dreamt of a better world. (A world where they could be together.)

Armand who could probably reshape France to his liking in just a couple of years, Armand whose death warrant he’d be signing when he did---if he did---)

But he could hear Aramis sigh under his breath, _Liberté, Egalité_ , _Fraternité,_ could see the gentle way in which Porthos held him, could see how athos watched them in tender regard out of the corner of his eyes, and knew that force would be a better tool of change than any of Armand’s mind games with the French people.

He’d do it. Dear god, he’d hate himself, but he’d do it.

“For a better world,” he said.

“For a better world,” they chorused around him, clinking glasses together in cheers.

He couldn’t bring himself to join them.

Versailles was never quiet, but it was quietest around five or six in the morning. Nobility kept late hours, but everyone managed to crawl into bed by then, usually. Everyone except the servants, at least, who were generally more sympathetic toward their cause. They’d know to get out of the way, at least, know not to interfere. That was all they needed.

The sky was gray and the sun had barely risen, but his men were bound to come marching at any moment. He didn’t have much time, but he couldn’t---he couldn’t just let him die, damnit. He couldn’t.

Richelieu had been granted his own apartments in Versailles, even though he didn’t necessarily need them. God knew that Armand could fund building a palace in the middle of Paris, if he really wanted to. The door was unguarded: all the men in Treville’s regiment were, well. They were joining the men on the streets. He faltered a moment, staring at his reflection in the golden doorknob. Yet with every passing moment he felt that he could hear the phantom of pounding boots, and he knew--- he knew---

(They would never leave Armand alone.)

He threw open the door, and felt, suddenly, as if he would never have enough time. But he had planned for this, hadn’t he? Quietly in the back of his mind, when he told the groups the plan. Adding in enough time to get him out.

(There was never going to be a world when he would let him die.)

He pushed the door open. Armand was still asleep; surprising for him. He had always been an early riser, even back then.  He liked to watch the sunrise, the way it made everything golden and new. They did that together, once.

Jean had never had the luxury of watching him sleep. The thought of them ever lying in bed together was laughable---it had only ever been quick, back then. Only ever behind closed doors, only ever too fast and never fast enough. And then---They were found out. And they never thought they would ever see another again.

Maybe that would have been best. Because now they were stuck like this, on opposite sides on a goddamn battlefield, still dreaming about the past even when lives were at stake. “Armand.” He shook him. “Armand, wake up.”

He jolted out of sleep, his hand going for something underneath his pillow and---ah, was that a gun? Smart of him to think of that. “ _Jean?_ ”

“No time.” He said, because he didn’t know what to say otherwise. “There’s no time, Armand.”

And there must have been something in his eyes, because he forced himself into a sitting position and swung himself off of the bed. “Here? Now?”

“In less than an hour.”

Richelieu swore, storming about his room in search of clothes. He dressed in a hurry,  Treville averted his eyes. Was that what you did, when facing your former lover who was still the love of your life? He glanced back at him, watched him straighten his shirt, tuck a crucifix under the collar---oh.“You kept it?” Treville said, staring at him. Why? It was just a plain wooden cross on a strip of leather, far less grand than anything Armand would have bought himself. “After all this time?”

“Of course,” he said, meeting his eyes. “Of course I did.”

He kept it. For years, he kept it, the stupid gift of a boy who had saved up for months to buy him a birthday present. _(If you think that He’ll accept us, Armand, then it must be true.)_

The clock chimed seven o’clock.

No time.

“This way,” he said, grabbing at Armand’s hand and running. “Go out through the gardens. There’s a horse waiting.”

“Jean---” Armand said as they reached the door. “Thank you.”

He swallowed, forcing a smile, and didn’t say _everyone else in there is going to die, and it’ll be because of me._ “Of course.”

Then Armand was riding off, and the sun came over the horizon. Time to make things new. Time to make things better.

_Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité._

 


	2. Chapter 2

He should have known that it wasn’t going to be the end. They were never going to leave Richelieu alone, they were never going to just let him escape in the middle of the night and never be seen from again. Not the King’s most trusted minister. Not the First Minister of France. They were going to go after him, of course they were going to go after him, because there was never going to be any other way for this story to end.

(“We can’t just let him go, Treville!” Lafleche had shouted, the night after the raid. “Don’t you think---Treville, after all the things they’ve done--"

 _Armand never wanted to hurt anyone. Not really. Not like that._ “Of course.” He couldn’t look him in the eye. “I just thought that it would be better if we didn’t waste the resources chasing him down.” They couldn’t just let him go. Not someone as prominent as Richelieu was.

“Treville…” Lafleche sighed, rubbing at his temples. “Don’t you see? Everything’s so new. If we act lenient now, if we let him go---”

 _We’ll be seen as weak._ “I see.” He said, and there were few things that Treville wouldn’t do for the republic, but killing Armand was one of them.

 _But it’d be different to just let him die,_ some voice said in the back of his head, one that was built from rage and pain. _You wouldn’t have to do anything. Just sit back and look away. For the republic, for everyone else._

And watch his blood fill the streets, his head topple off onto the ground. Forgotten. Forgotten like all the rest of the thrice-damned guillotine’s victims, good for nothing but rotting. No, Jean would never be able to do that. Not even Treville would be able to do that.)

They wouldn’t stop talking about him.  How they would find him, how they would kill him. It never ended.

Treville didn't guess how Richelieu was going to die. He didn't have to. Even in his nightmares, it was always the same.

Richelieu would march to his death with his head held high, one hand clutching his crucifix, the other outstretched toward the sky, as if he would send himself to heaven from proximity alone.

“I hope he screams,” Aramis said, eyes dark as he watched over the fire. He had a sister, Treville knew. He had once had a sister. She had been Richelieu’s mistress for some time---( _“They never mattered, Jean, none of them were anything compared to you. I never touched her, I promise. She was selling secrets to the Spanish--- I made you a promise and I won’t ever go back on that.”_ )---and now she was dead. “I hope he screams, and I hope he begs, that fucking coward---”

And it hurt. It hurt, but Treville wouldn’t say anything. They couldn’t know. They couldn’t ever know, because if they did---Well, Treville knew they cared for him. But even that wouldn’t be enough. Enough to save him, perhaps. Not enough to save Armand, too.

“Aramis,” Porthos took his hand.

“I want him to hurt.”

“I know. Trust me, I know.” He said. “We’ll find him soon, Aramis.”

And. No. They couldn’t. He wouldn’t let them, damn it. His boys weren’t going to torture anyone, god, he wished they wouldn’t kill anyone, and they sure as hell weren’t going to touch Armand. “I should go to bed,” he stood up stiffly. “Goodnight.” And then he was going out of the room, and out of the building, and he could pack all the things he needed in an hour.

If he could save him. If he ever even had the chance of saving him, he’d take it. He’d always take it.

There was only one place that Armand was ever going to go to. Even now, hiding away, Jean still knew there was only one place for him to go. There was no way he was getting on a ship, no way he could get across the borders. So there was only one place for him to go. And, damn it, he hoped none of his men knew that.

The Richelieu estates were as imposing as ever, and he felt a twinge of fear for a moment: he had said he would never come back. Up until now, he had never particularly wanted to. He had always been far more attached to Armand than to that place.

The former Duc and Duchesse de Richelieu were gone, now. The only threats that were left weren’t for him. So, he knocked on the door. No one that was coming for Armand’s head would bother to knock.

It wasn’t Armand that opened the door. It was Jussac, Armand’s valet---Armand’s friend. “What do you want--- _Jean_?”

“Let me see him.”

“There’s no one here.” Liar.

“Where is he, Jussac.”

“He’s not---”

“If I came to arrest him, Robert, do you think I’d be alone?”

“Came to kill him, you mean.”

Yes. That. “You know why I joined the army, Jussac.”

A sigh. The door was opened a few inches further. “I suppose I do.”

“Where is he?”

“The stables.”

The stables. Armand, that sentimental bastard.

No matter what they did, they couldn’t bring back the past. Despite how much he wanted to. (What he would give to have those days back, to be stuck in summer heat and youthful skin. To still feel invincible. To think Armand was invincible. To be able to press kisses into sunburned skin and damn all the consequences, because it was summer and they were young and in love, and nothing really felt all that dangerous, not then.)

Then he was leaning up against the stable door, and Armand was lying with a book propped open, and it was just like when they were sixteen and idiots, back when love was messy but easy. “I was wondering when you were going to come for me,” he said, tossing the book to the ground with a sigh. “Are they waiting outside for me, then?”

“What?”

“Your men, Jean. The rabble-rousers and bloodthirsty mobs who deign to call themselves revolutionaries.” He said it haphazardly, but his jaw was clenched and there was a tremor in his left hand, and he wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Are they here?”

“You knew?” He said, because no, that wasn’t right. He had been so careful. Armand was never supposed to know.

“Of course I knew.” And, oh. Right. Armand was the first minister of France. Armand had spies.

But--- “You didn’t turn me in.”

He looked startled. “Of course not.” And he said it as if it was obvious, as if there would never would have been any other thought that would even cross his mind.

“Then you should know that I came here alone.”

The tension in his shoulders eased, but not quite entirely. “Then why are you here?”

“Because---” _I couldn’t leave you to die._ Because love clung to him like a disease that would never go away, because Armand was all he’d ever wanted from the world, even though the others were trying to make the world he had always wanted. “Just because they’re not here yet doesn’t mean they won’t come.”

“I hope to be out of France by the time they do.”

He shook his head. “That won’t be fast enough.” How long did it take to charter a ship? How long would it take to get Armand over a border? “They’ll look here first, you know they will.”

A sigh. “I know.”

“Come with me,” he said, rash and fast because that was the only way this was going to work. “I can get you to La Rochelle, We can get you to England.” And me, too, he didn’t say, even though he knew that LaFleche must have known that Treville betrayed them, that Aramis would never be able to look him in the eye again, that it might be his own head on the guillotine. “Anywhere would be better than here,”

Armand nodded sighing like the weight of the world rested on his thin limbs. “I hear London is lovely this time of year.” That was a lie, because as far as Jean had ever heard London was gray and dull and dreadfully _English_ , nothing like France, nothing like home, but he didn’t need color if it meant they were both alive. (He didn’t need color, if he could look at the world and not fear for anything or anyone. But that life was never meant for Jean, never had been.)

“I guess you’ll find out.”

Armand looked strange dressed in peasant clothing, but at least he had the grace to not complain about how it must have itched. Armand had always seemed larger than life, yet stuck in Jussac’s clothing, he looked wrong, out of place. Armand was built for robes and hunting gear, for toppling kingdoms and ruling countries. Not for sitting in clothing that a farmer might have, as Jean tried in vain to get him to look like he wasn’t noble. “Just… hunch over, or something. You’re too proud.”

“I am _literally_ just sitting on a horse.”

And it shouldn’t have been funny, it shouldn’t have, because it wasn’t even funny, but everything these days seemed life and death. It felt like so long since Jean had laughed. The forest was green and the sunlight was bright and it was the middle of July, and they felt like children they never got to be. Not really.

Then, when the giggle subsided, ean climbed off his horse and tied it to a tree. “Come on, we’ll sleep here tonight.”

And Armand was absolutely useless at making camp, but Jean had expected that anyway. So the fire crackled and left a golden glow, and they slept side by side underneath the pale stars.

They didn’t touch. They didn’t dare to. Because what would touching mean, these days? How much was too far, how much would leave them unable to leave the other behind? (Would Jean go with him? Would he go back? What was even left for him, in the world of blood and ash that Armand left? _His boys_ , he didn’t say. His boys who might want him dead, his boys that were the children he would never have.)

Yet the stars glittered above them, and it was the middle of the night in a forest where there was no one around to know their names, and they weren’t so much sleeping as breaking under the weight of their past.

“Armand, I…”

“I know.” Because Armand always knew. No matter what it was, he always knew. “Jean, if they---if they find us, I want you to abandon me. Tell them---tell them that you found me first, tell them that you were bringing me back.” _I don’t want you to die._

“We’ll be fine, Armand.” It was only a couple days ride to La Rochelle. Then Armand would be on a ship off to England, and maybe they would never see each other again, and maybe that would be for the best.

They drifted off into uneasy dreams beside each other. When they woke, prodded awake by rays of early morning sunshine, they said nothing about it, because La Rochelle was barely less than a day’s ride away.

“Armand?” He said, when the city was stretched out before them along the horizon.

“Yes?”

“When you’re in England---” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he should even say anything. And it wasn’t right to ask him not to forget about him, because they could never forget each other, even when they were a world away. To assume that he might would be an insult. Sacrilege.

Their hands entwined for a brief moment, Armand’s spindly fingers curling around his. Even now, he still understood him without either of them having to speak. Even now. “I made you a promise, once, didn’t I?” Forever. No one else.

Some anxiety in him relaxed. “Right.”

So Jean led him through the city, keeping their voices down and cloak hoods up, because they couldn’t afford to be recognized. Not when they were so close to freedom.

The harbor was near. If they could only get just a little closer, through this alleyway and that, then---they reached it. But it didn’t look like any harbor Treville had ever seen.

Where was all the movement? It was empty. There was no one around. The sun barely near setting, and yet there was no one there. It wasn’t a sunday, no one would be at mass. There was just… No one. It was more like a painting of a harbor than a harbor, all golden lighting and grand ships, but no people. “Where is everyone?” The city had it’s usual ruckus, it was market day. But there was no one at the harbor.

A lone passerby took pity on them. “The republic’s gone and shut down the harbor, lad,” he said. “No business here until the end of the month.”

The end of the month. God, it had barely been days since the storming of Versailles, and they were supposed to last weeks? He vaguely registered thanking the man, watching him walk away. Then he just stood there, stick straight.

“Jean?” Armand said, and damn it, Armand couldn’t die, Jean wouldn’t let him. “Jean, it’s alright.” But no, it wasn’t, couldn’t he see that?“I’m going to get us out of the city, Jean, do you think that you can follow me?” And Armand took his arm, and he was warm and real and living, and he watched himself move as if he wasn’t the one doing it.

Then suddenly they were out of the city, even though he could really remember walking through it, and Armand held both of Jean’s hands in his own, and---

“It’s alright, just breathe, Jean, just breathe.”

He wasn’t quite sure what happened after that; it took a while for the world to come back into focus. Then, quietly, “Armand?”

“Jean,” he sighed, and let the weight of the world ooze out of him with that one motion. “You’re alright.”

“Yeah.” He hadn’t had one of those in ages. Not since he first joined the army. He coughed, he wouldn’t meet his eye. “Sorry for---”

“Don’t apologize.” He said, and his hands were steady. Jean could breathe. All was well. All seemed well. “Jean, I. What was that?”  
He didn’t have a name for it. He just. Shut down, sometimes. And he thought he was over that, damn it, he hadn’t done that in years, but---

But now Armand might die. And he had no way of preventing it. And he couldn’t deal with that. He couldn’t. Because Armand was----Damnit, Armand was---everything.  

Then they were kissing. And for once, it wasn’t like before. It was hot and messy and rushed, but it was new. Like a beginning. Like, somehow, they might be able to move on. Like they might be able to have each other outside of memories that he should have forgotten ages ago.

His skin was soft and pleasant to touch, and the sun set behind them, red and gold and warm. “You’ll be fine, Armand.” he said, and he didn’t know if he was convincing Armand or himself. “I won’t let them touch you.”

The sun faded into a scarlet line on the horizon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaweofiefnoeifn so yes i know that. A) this Jean is so OOC it sucks. B) that was probably a very poorly written panic attack/dissociative problem thing, C) I forgot to mention this in the first chapter, but yes I know the 14th of July is because of Storming the Bastille, not storming Versailles, and I don't really know that much of french history to know whether or not there was actually storming Versailles.


	3. The Downfall

They stayed like that for what felt like ages, quiet in the embrace of the dark forest. They couldn’t stay there forever, but they could stay long enough. They could just stand like this,  breathing for each other, because every breath for themselves always caught in their throats. So they evaded, kissing each other to forget, to remind themselves that they were still alive, to surrender themselves to need. To pretend they were still young and invincible.

If they were still young, the fumbling would be from youthful vigor instead of _it’s been too long_ , and the undying fear of _what if this is the last time?_

If they were still young, it would’ve been before Armand’s parents found out, back when Armand could just suggest an impromptu “hunting trip,” and demand that Jean join him without anyone being the wiser.

This fantasy scenario that they played out silently wouldn’t have been one of the first time; the first time was reserved for memory only, for long nights spent lonely and Jean hating himself for remembering. The first night was with undying idealists, sixteen and fumbling but stupidly in love; entwining themselves together and climaxing too soon,  falling asleep curled together on scratchy yellow hay that made Armand sneeze.

No, this was not like the first time. They were hardly even the same people as they were back then. But this was about pretending, even if it was far more frenzied than they had ever been back then, even if they knew more than ever that they shouldn’t.

But they did, because Armand was warm and perfect next to him, because his lips were soft and clever, and the moon above them made him glow. So they came apart with each other’s hands, because they were too caught up in each other to deal with anything more skilled. Jean sucked a mark into Armand’s neck, because he had always wanted to, but never been able. It had always been far too public a spot, and Armand would’ve had no woman to blame it on. But now, here, in the middle of a forest where there was no one to see, no one to know their names, he could.

And all too soon it was over, all too soon they were leaning into each other, sweaty and sleepy and worn out. They laid like that, Jean’s head on Armand’s chest, pretending that it wasn’t so that he could hear the reassuring beat of his heart. And they mumbled silly little nothings, an accumulation of  “Forever”s, and poetic little ramblings that only made sense to them.

They fell asleep, curled together in the summer air. Maybe Jean could live like this, he thought, living off of eachother’s affections, pressed so close that they could hardly tell where one started and the other began.

 

So they lived like that for what felt like ages, existing in their own peaceful little bubble where neither fear nor pain could reach. It was easy. It was so easy. It was like the universe itself had forgotten they existed. It was like the happily-ever-afters that storybooks always advertized. It felt endless.

So, of course, it had to end. And it did.

 

He didn’t know how they found them. Maybe they had been sloppy hiding their tracks after all the time spent thinking they would be fine; maybe Jean had been followed after one of his few trips into the city, maybe it was an act of god himself, hellbent on tearing them apart.

(He had thought, once, that any god which brought Armand to him couldn’t be all cruel. Even one that placed him in a world like this. He should’ve known better. The world itself would fight tooth and nail to keep them apart.)

 

They had been sleeping when they were found, curled up in each other as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. (Oh, how he wished the rest of the world didn’t exist.)

They had woken up to swords at their faces and bounty hunters staring them down.

“This him, René?”

“That’s the Cardinal alright.”

Armand squeezed his hand so hard that he thought it might break. He looked so pale, the color of ash. He wondered, vaguely, if his own face looked the same. “Jean,” he hissed, grabbing at his hand, holding on so tight his knuckles turned white. “Jean,” he said, and it almost sounded like a plea, but what could he do, damn it, what could he do? He wasn’t armed. They were. Even if he was, he couldn’t take on three men by himself, all at once. Perhaps they could attempt an escape later, but not now, not like this.

Yet Armand was gripping his hand and pleading with him to do something. “Treville,” he said, and, no, that was wrong, Armand never called him by that name. When he was with Armand he was always Jean. Treville was for the thrice-damned general back in Paris--- oh.

_(“If they find us, I want you to abandon me. Tell them---tell them that you found me first, tell them that you were bringing me back.”)_

But it was too late for that, couldn’t he see? They had found them when they were sleeping, when they were curled up in each other’s arm, and that was far too tender a moment for a jailer and his convict. They would never believe him.

(Not that he could make himself do it anyway. He could never do that to him. Never. Didn’t Armand know that? Jean never had the sort of strength to keep living when Armand was dead.)

And that must have shown in his eyes, so much that the blue must have lost so much light it turned to gray, because Armand was looking at him as if Armand was dying. The sort o f way that meant he was taking in every last detail of Jean’s face, that Armand had every time when he thought Jean wasn’t looking. The kind that meant he had no hope left.

So he tightened his grip on their hands together, and refused to let go even as their captors forced them upwards, even as they were bound in chains.

“Forever,” he sighed, barely audible.

“It was always going to be,” he said, louder, because it was far too late for pretenses. Because if he couldn’t be open about things now, then he was never going to be. “Never anyone else.”

Their hands stayed entwined the entire march to Paris.

 

Paris was just as gray as he remembered, a mess of gunpowder and cloudy skies. Blood still filled the streets, stilled stained everything in sight, still stained him red. But this time it made him less a general and more a monster: this time he was Richelieu red, this time he bore a traitor’s mark. And they were being brought straight to the people he betrayed.

Everything was ash and gray, but Armand held his hand and he pretended there were colors other than red. Pretended that wouldn’t be the last thing he saw. Because he was going to die here, that much he always knew. There was never going to be a different ending to this story. He was an idiot for ever thinking that there might be.

He had been destined to die since he stepped into the backroom of the cafe where they first talked about revolution. Or, no, he had been destined to this far earlier than that, when he first saw Armand and decided he wanted him more than he had ever wanted anything.

But if he damned himself then he never wanted to know what it was like to be free.

They were brought into the Headquarters of the Republic, their entwined hands more clear than any brand,  and he lowered his gaze so he wouldn’t have to look Aramis in the eye. (He didn’t regret what he did. But he’d always regret hurting Aramis.)

They had walked through repurposed Paris without a word, without any cries. Even as they walked past Notre Dame, knowing fully well that Armand would never give mass there again, that no one might ever. That the grandeur of Paris was in some ways just memories, that the Paris they had once known was gone forever.

Treville hadn’t cared, when it meant a brighter tomorrow; when it meant that no one would have to go hungry whilst staring at ridiculous displays of wealth. And that was good, it would always be good, but now it just felt like everything was a shadow of its former self. Including him.

And now, walking into the building that housed his downfall, he wished that he was more of a shell and less of a person. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with the way their judgemental eyes tore him to shreds, didn’t have to deal with the inevitability of his boys hating him.

In an ideal scenario they would never know. They would’ve been out of the city, and he would’ve been dead and gone before they returned. He would die, and they would believe he was still the man they thought he was, he would die with his boys still loving him.

But this was definitely not a perfect scenario.

“Treville!” Little D’Artagnan said, because he must have seen his face before he saw the chains or their jailers. And of course, wherever D’Artagnan was the other three were never far behind.

“Captain!” Shouted Athos, and they always called him by his old title, by his original title, because to them, no matter what, he would always be Captain. Then he noticed the chains. “What are you doing, you’re detaining a Captain of the Republic---”

“Captain of the republic, he says,” one of their captors sneered.  “It’s as if he doesn’t know.”

That was when Aramis saw Armand. “Captain, why are you with the Cardinal,” meaning _why are you chained to the cardinal_ , meaning _why is he holding your hand._

“Whatever you think he is, he isn’t,” Porthos snapped. “Let him go.”

“Obviously the Captain came across the Cardinal on his own personal manhunt,” Athos said, in his professional voice, the one that Aramis used to teasingly call pretentious before kissing him. “Not trying to _cavort_ with him---”

He sighed, lifting his eyes from their spot on the floor. “Athos, stop.”

Their worlds crumbled before their eyes.

“You should’a seen how we found ‘em,” One of the Bounty hunters said. “Curled up into each other like they were the only ones in the world---”

And someone was shouting, “ _Liar!”_ but he wasn’t sure who it was, and Armand was solid but silent behind him.

All he could say was three damning words, “No, they’re not.”

‘You don’t mean that,” Aramis said, Aramis _pleaded_ , “Captain, tell me you don’t mean that.”

He was silent. That was close enough to saying yes, and they all knew it.

“You know what he did to Adele, damn it, tell me it’s not true---”

Silence. Armand squeezed his hand.

“You bastard.” Aramis said, but he was holding back tears, holding back screams. “You fucking bastard---” And Aramis was breaking to bits with only Athos and Porthos holding him back. “Don’t you fucking care about what he did? Did you ever even care about any of us?”

And, “Of course I cared about you,” because they were _his boys_ , damn it. They were his boys.

“Well it doesn’t fucking look like it.” He hissed, and then they were gone, and Jean didn’t remember much after that. Only that he and Armand were brought to a cell that was every bit dark and gray as Paris.

“Jean?” Armand was saying, grabbing at his hands and smoothing back his hair.

“Armand.”

“I...I am sorry, you know.”   
“Don’t be,” he said, feeling older than an age. “Armand, don’t be.”

“I never wanted it to be this way.”  
“I know.” He laughed humorlessly. “I know. But it was never going to be any other way.”

“Damn it, Jean, why couldn’t you just have stayed away?”

“If it had been me, tell me you wouldn't have done the same.”

But Armand only sighed, the unspoken, _I would have,_  obvious in the air, and they laid against each other, pressing last kisses to each other instead of pretending to sleep.

  
The next day, they were brought before the firing squad.

Richelieu went to his death with one hand on his crucifix and the other clutching Jean’s hand, holding him so tight as if the force alone might anchor them to the earth, or maybe send them to a different one. One where they would never have to worry or hide.

The shots rang out and the sun rose behind them, showering everything in golden light. Armand always loved the sunrise. Had liked how it made everything new.

For a moment, all was gold.

And then it turned black.

  
  


(And two hundred years later a man awoke from the sound of gunshots and watched his husband sleep, the sun rising over Paris behind them.)

 

 


End file.
